Susan Gilmore’s The Curious Calling of Leonard Bush (Blair, 2025) opens with a funeral—for an amputated leg. A “curious” beginning, to be sure, but not a gimmick. Instead, this unusual event launches a deeply meaningful, beautifully written story about grief, guilt, community, and healing in Sweetwater, Tennessee. Through rotating third-person perspectives, Gilmore delivers a tender, richly layered narrative told through the eyes of twelve-year-old Leonard and his parents, June and Emmett.
Leonard loses his leg after stepping on broken glass while fishing in the Big Sugar River. Infection sets in, and doctors are unable to save the limb. Leonard insists on holding a funeral, not for dramatic effect, but because he feels he owes his leg “a proper goodbye.” He’s not concerned with theology or fate—he sees the accident as just that. What weighs on him is the loss of baseball, his independence, and the shape of his future:
“Daddy says that a man ain’t measured by his size or shape. I think he’s right about that. At least I’m hoping so. . . . Also hoping God can make something of me . . . of what’s left of me . . . Like I am . . . one-legged and all.”
Leonard’s parents react to the accident in strikingly different ways. His mother June is rigidly religious yet superstitious—haunted by her belief that bad luck comes in threes. She had objected to Leonard fishing alone, and now clings to that as justification for restricting him even further. Emmett, on the other hand, is racked with guilt. He encouraged the fishing trip, and now he’s determined to let Leonard keep some semblance of a normal life:
“June accused him of being heartless, but she was wrong. Emmett’s heart ached and the pain was never ceasing. In the month and a half since the surgery, his guilt had only festered, burrowing deeper into his heart like a worm finding its way inside an ear of corn.”
Gilmore captures marriage in all its complexity, especially the way tragedy and guilt can pull a couple apart despite their strong bond. June and Emmett love each other, but they don’t truly understand each other’s inner worlds. June reflects on Emmett:
“She also knew her husband was tight with a dollar, snored most of the night, and littered the bare floor with his toenail clippings. But when it came to other things—his fears and hurts—she knew very little about him. He was a secret keeper like Leonard, and she hated that about them both.”
Emmett, too, hides pieces of himself—like his emotional attachment to his dead sister’s baby shoe:
“Emmett had always been quick to poke fun at her superstitions, and he’d sound a hypocrite for sure if she knew of his attachment to such a thing and how he had taken to carrying it around in his pocket.”
After the accident, Emmett forms a similar connection to his son’s baseball cleat.
The Big Sugar River is both literal and symbolic throughout the novel. It’s the site of Leonard’s accident, but also a sacred space—where father and son once bonded, and where Leonard drew courage:
“Big Sugar had always given Leonard a courage he couldn’t fully explain. It was a rejuvenating power, Emmett told him once, that sprang from a mere trickle on a wooded mountaintop that grew deeper, wider, and stronger, with its descent.”
After the accident, that bond breaks. The father and son river visits cease, and silence takes hold.
Unexpectedly, Leonard becomes a kind of guardian for the town’s emotional baggage. Neighbors, both children and adults, begin bringing him objects—each representing guilt or past wrongdoing. A shoplifted trinket. A slingshot that caused harm. A motel key signaling infidelity. Leonard buries them in the family cemetery, hoping to help others—and himself—find peace. Only Azalea, daughter of the town prostitute and Leonard’s best friend, shares his secret. She sings at the burials while Leonard preaches, giving them a ceremonial air.
Azalea and her family are central to the novel. Despite her young age, Azalea shoulders adult responsibilities, caring for her baby brother Atlas while her mother Rose survives through prostitution. The town’s women judge Rose harshly—at least until some begin to acknowledge the hardships she faces. Still, her lifestyle leaves Azalea vulnerable.
Without giving away too much, one luminous passage near the end reveals Leonard’s—and June’s—growth and the novel’s heart:
“Leonard came to understand that God hadn’t chosen June to do his work. It was the other way around. June had volunteered, choosing love in the middle of tragedy. That was truly divine. Watching his mama do the Lord’s work, Leonard regretted ever misguiding anyone for his own selfish purposes, to feel better about his misfortune.”
Choosing to help others in the midst of tragedy—that’s the spiritual core of The Curious Calling of Leonard Bush. And Gilmore’s writing, like that calling, feels divine.
Susan Gilmore
Susan Gregg Gilmore is also the author of Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen, The Improper Life of Bezellia Grove, and The Funeral Dress. Her journalism has appeared in The Chattanooga Times Free Press, Los Angeles Times, and Christian Science Monitor. A Nashville native, she lives in Tennessee with her husband.
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